Poems line my pockets
unpolished stones
slipping through holes,
fine fabric worn through -
my fingers try to grasp
the weight of a word,
grope the shape of a phrase,
I long to feel the edge cut
sharply against my palm,
for my lips to taste
the iron salt
drink the lifeblood
be filled with desire -
until it spills red to the page
the gift, the story
the passion revealed.
Until I am the stone
slipping, worn,
rough and unpolished.
Until the poem
imperfect -
is I.

Notelvis, aka Deb